"Son of old Mike, the miner, at Porthellick?"
"Yes; and forty of the thirty-seventh Native Infantry under Burgoyne."
"But I believe you are to tiff, with us at the Trecarrels in the afternoon," observed Denzil. "The General's Chuprassey, a half-naked fellow with a brass badge, brought Waller and me pink notes of invitation, and I saw there was one for you."
"I shall be duly there if a ball from a juzail, or a slash from an Afghan knife don't put me on the sick list, or give you a chance of a lieutenancy," replied Polwhele, twirling his thick black moustache.
"It is wretched work we are condemned to, at times, here."
"Yes," rejoined Polwhele, "and I fear that my little affair with the Ghazeeas is but the forerunner of some greater disturbance."
"However, to-morrow or the day after, the Envoy is to have a solemn conference with the ferocious Ackbar Khan."
"I don't think much will come of that," continued Polwhele. "It is to the memories of Plassey, Assaye, and a hundred glorious battles, rather than to our present numerical force, that we Britons owe our prestige in the East; but here in Cabul, beyond the Indus, it has not yet been felt, thanks to parsimony and utter mismanagement, civil and military."
"Don't take to grumbling, Jack, but pass the brandy bottle, old fellow. I hope we shall keep Shah Sujah on his throne despite Ackbar Khan and all the rebellious rabble in Afghanistan. What was up in your quarter yesterday? You were on guard near the old tomb and temple westward of the Cantonments."
"Up—how?"